


Nightmare Vigil

by JoCarthage



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: 1960s, Alternate Universe - 1960s, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slash, Soviet Union, mind-reading
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-06
Updated: 2012-05-06
Packaged: 2017-11-04 23:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JoCarthage/pseuds/JoCarthage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles/Erik yumminess. In the timeline of X-Men: First Class, covers the nights Charles and Erik spend together. Charles has bad dreams from his past, and tries to protect Erik from them. I haven't read the comics, so there are known back-story flaws.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightmare Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger Warning: not-particularly graphic but still potentially upsetting child-abuse.

There are great joys and pains to be had in loving a telepath. What Erik could not have guessed, that first night, bunking awkwardly in Charles's Coast Guard ship cabin, was that their most intimate moments would be when they were both unconscious.

Charles was the most powerful telepath they had ever found. His focus was gripping, and the amount of control he exercised not only over the content but the tone of his mind as it touched others was impossible to understand without the contrast that sharing his nightmares provided.

Each wrapped in an army-issue sleeping bag, backs to each other, Erik clutching his back-up knife as they slept, Charles kept his dreams to himself. When Erik awoke and saw his savior's exhausted face, that stab of tenderness grew from gratefulness and a slither of attraction, but no deeper knowledge.

That first day at the CIA, when Charles offered him the couch in his and Raven's 2 bedroom apartment "Oh, only until you decide whether you're staying," and Erik brushed him off, it was not for fear of what sharing a mindspace with a telepath might bring.

When he slouched into their apartment, picking the lock with his powers and hoping to crash and leave before they woke up, he found Charles reading by a low lamp-light. Erik did not yet know this was to give Raven time to get into deep enough sleep to protect herself from Charles's unconscious mind.

Without looking up from his academic journal, Charles said "I'll be finished in a few minutes--please help yourself to the food in the kitchen. I know you are tired, but please consider if I can interest you in a game of chess before you go to bed." Erik had nodded at him, leaning his precious briefcase against the kitchen island where he could see it, and opened the refrigerator. Jam, milk, sourdough bread, and-in the very back, casually opened-what looked like real challah. Erik found a clean knife, and sliced off chunk of the challah and chewed.

He refused to succumb to the flood of memories it brought, but it made him feel warm in spite of himself. Done wolfing it down, he walked back to the living room, only to see Charles finalizing the set-up on a green and white marble chess-set. Though he was tired, sharing a silent game with his host seemed to fulfill the bare minimum of politeness.

They played, with Charles radiating only concentration, with no pressure or prying. Charles won, but in the end only his rooks, queen, and a few pawns survived. When Erik's king fell, Charles stretched, said "You will find appropriate bedding in the hall closet," relocked the top and bottom of the front door, and went to the bedroom at the far end of the hall.

Leaving his clothes on, Erik found the blue cotton sheets, feather-down pillow already in its pillowcase, and antic quilt. As he drifted off to sleep, a knife under the pillow, another under the couch, and his brief-case under his feet, he drowsily noticed Charles's bedroom light was still on.

Stalking out the front door of the CIA annex, when Charles said he knew everything about him, Erik assumed Charles had stayed up to plumb the depths of Erik's dreams. Though, if he had remembered more clearly, that night on Charles's couch had been his first one without bad dreams on a night he ended sober.

During that first few weeks working together at the agency, Erik had remained on Charles's couch. Each night ended with a chess game, where the only mental communication came in the form of gambits and stratagems on the board. Never in those nights did Erik come to a dark living room, and never did Charles go to sleep before him.

On the flight to Russia, Charles took a dramamine and fell into a heavy sleep before take-off. As he slept, Erik took stock of his features. Dark hair, prone to floppiness. Lashes that were too good for a man. A body made athletic not by genetics, but by constant effort. Charles awoke abruptly over the North Sea, only to harass Erik into a game of chess. Erik grudgingly obliged, realizing he himself had never gotten to sleep. He begged off after only one game and, trying to appear as dignified as the flight allowed, folded his long frame over onto the tray table and fell asleep, only armed with a small knife in his boot.

Erik had ruined all of Charles's careful planning with his need to punish Ema for loving his torturer/teacher. He could scarcely hear Charles shouting at him as he choked her with the officer's bed-frame. He blood ran thick through his ears, so that even Charles's recap of her confession barely touched his mind.

It was not until they were relatively safe in an anonymous inn outside of Leningrad that he began to hear Charles again. Sharing a room, the government's dime is a thin one, Erik sat on his double bed, far from the window. Hunching over, elbows on knees and long hands dangling, he hung his head and tried to tune into Charles's rant. Searching through his recent memory, Erik intuited Charles had been on about Ema's revelations about Schmidt's plans for the last hour.

"Did you really believe he was capable of less?" Erik ask Charles.

Caught mid-step, Charles realized he was no longer monologuing and now had to account for Erik's past history with the man.

"No, and yes. I have trouble understanding a man who would do the things to a child that Shaw did to you-"

"It is not what he did to me that he must pay for."

"Your mother, yes. I had hoped that his psychopathy was limited to monstrous personal cruelty without broader aims. But I should have known from his targeting you and your powers that murder and misery-making weren't enough for him."

"What pretty words to describe what I lived through, thank you for your insight."

Erik stood up abruptly and stalked to the bathroom. He slammed the door and hunched over the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. _I am so sorry my friend; there is no frame by which I can understand your suffering._

"Get out of my head, Charles." Erik said sharply. He could feel Charles's mental influence retreating, then heard his footsteps to the corridor door. Given that they were in the middle-of-nowhere-Soviet Russia, he assumed Charles was giving him space by going for a long walk, as he did when Erik's temper had overfilled their Virginia apartment.

Erik ran the water tap, which gurgled out bone-chillingly cold, and splashed himself in the face. He cursed himself for snapping at his friend. His training had left him with few real social skills. He could act the gentlemen, the assassin, the good ole boy, the Nazi. But with a friend for whom he did not have to act, his festering rage was all too apparent.

He would make it right with Charles, not with an apology, but with extra chess games at the end of the night. He considered going out to find beer to share, but didn't want Charles to think he was groveling.

Charles returned a few hours later, to find Erik doing calisthenics in their small room. He quietly joined him, following his count on his remaining sets of push-ups, squats, and wall-sits, then luxuriating in the chance to stretch himself out fully. The tenseness at the military mansion, and then Erik's outburst, had knotted his shoulders tightly.

Leaning over his knee and straining towards his toe, Charles was surprised to feel Erik's hands gently pressing his back, helping him lean into his stretch. He breathed into his hands, and stretched the final distance on his out-breath. They repeated the process, Erik pressing on Charles's lower back when he could strain further no more.

Then Erik stood up from his squat and began stretching out his wrists and forearms, working his way to his shoulders. Charles mirrored him, enjoying being led in a workout by a skilled athlete. When Erik saw Charles grimace as he rolled his tense shoulders, he motioned for Charles to turn around, and deftly worked Charles's shoulders with his knuckles and thumbs.

Charles kept his body and face carefully neutral. He had never seen Erik willingly touch anyone, male or female. Charles had seen no evidence of physical tenderness in Erik's adult life. Keeping to the negotiated silence of their chess games, he accepted Erik's touch by projecting warmth but nothing more.

In his private mind, Charles was purring. Erik's large hands were hot on his sweat-cooled skin. He could feel the tall man's body standing inches behind his own. But he knew nothing of Erik's intentions, and feared any try for more than a manly post-work-out massage would scare Erik off for good.

Kinks successfully chased from Charles's muscles, Erik patted shoulders and casually turned towards the bathroom. "Is it alright if I shower first?" he asked.

Charles gulped in his own mind, briefly overwhelmed by the prospect of a naked, soapy Erik, and muttered "Quite, of course."

Hearing the bathroom door click, Charles sank onto his thin bed, grumbling at himself. _The man is traumatized, has had no adult sexual relationships, and you're objectifying him like a schoolboy does an underwear model. Get a hold of yourself Charles._ Properly scolded, Charles picked up an academic journal and flipped it open.

"The Reproductive Habits of Asexual Amphibians"

 _No, no, no._ He dropped the journal like a hot coal. _Ah, a journal of Elizabethan literary studies._

"Shakespeare's Dark Lady: Man or Myth?"

 _Really?!_ Throwing that one aside, he picked up a hefty volume he had intended to use as a sleep-aid, or possibly a weapon. Its title, "An exploration of Zulu cooking rituals, 1913 - 1917" was enough to make his eyes droop. Flipping to the dedication page, he read:

"To my dear friend John, without whose support during the long, hot south African nights I could not have completed my research. How many drafty tents did we share, how many days of walking, how many precious bottles of gin? You will never be forgotten."

 _Fine._ Charles stiffly closed the offending tomb, dropped it in his suitcase, and went in search of beer. Erik emerged a few minutes later, white towel dangling from his hips. Surprised to find Charles gone again, he was usually a little retentive when it came to cleanliness, Erik quickly changed into loose sleeping clothes from the suitcase they shared.

Charles returned with two bottles of vodka, as the innkeeper's wife swore that was the only spirits she had. He set them on the nightstand, nodded to Erik, and went to the shower, clicking the door shut. Stripping down, he considered doing his part to relieve the tension he felt building between he and Eric, but decided against it, given the possibility for losing control over his projecting abilities at a key and likely embarrassing moment.

He scrubbed off quickly, forcing his mind away from dwelling on the privileged viewing that mirror had just had, and focusing instead on how to prevent Shaw from recruiting his own young team.

Stepping onto the tile floor, Charles realized he had forgotten to grab sleeping clothes before he entered the shower. He carefully cracked the bathroom door open and called out-

"Erik? Could you pass me my night clothes?"

Erik blanched, his mind swinging wildly to imagine his friend in need of clothing. His heart kicked up a notch and his stomach flipped. Powering past these unexpected physical changes, he climbed over Charles's bed to dig another pair of pants from their suitcase. Snatching a loose-fitting shirt, he shoved the tangle into Charles's fumbling hands and went back to his corner to the room to sit on his bed.

When Charles emerged from the steamy room, toweling off his hair, Erik was beginning to eye the vodka. When he had felt these kinds of physical urges, alcohol had always been present and helpful. Charles said,

"You up for a few games of chess?"

Erik nodded, leaned over to the night-stand and picking up one of the bottles, asking,

"Are these souvenirs, or can we celebrate a day done well?"

"Oh, yes, celebration is in order. But glasses were not--apparently the previous patrons broke most of the innkeeper's cups in what sounded like a spectacular brawl, or possibly, wedding. It wasn't clear."

"That's fine."

Erik twisted the lid off the bottle with his power, and offered the first swig to Charles. He took a quick sip and, after choking on the fumes, a longer pull. Erik took the same amount, then set the bottle on the floor. As they worked through way through their first game, they passed the bottle back and forth.

By their third game, they were both having a little trouble placing the pieces precisely into the centers of the board squares. By the fourth, both were laughing whenever they lost a piece. The game finished in a stale-mate, and Charles said,

_My friend, I am farther gone than I have been since Raven dared me to finish my mother's gin when in one evening when I was 13. I had better lay down before I fall down._

Erik nodded, smiling. The vodka had dimmed his pounding blood and narrowed his world to that of a chess piece. Charles stood up, and nearly keeled over into the chess board. Erik caught his arm, and gently guided him to his bed. Erik turned away to pull back his own covers and heard a soft thump. Charles had fallen over sideways on his bed, and was giggling merrily. Erik sighed and lifted his friend up, untucked the army-tight covers, sorted Charles's legs under them, then tucked the still smirking professor into bed.

"Goodnight Charles. I won't envy your head in the morning."

"Goodnight Erik. I won't head your envy either."

Erik shut off the light, and as his eyes slowly adjusted to the half-moon outside, saw that Charles was fast asleep. He smiled again, content, and slipped into sleep.

_"NO! Stop. You mustn't, he's my son." Slap._

_"Please, please Daddy, your hurting me."_

_"Shut the fuck up and bend over."_

_The sky was a clear blue Erik hadn't seen until he visited Argentina. He was in an opulent living room, with Persian carpets and hundred-year-old oil paintings. Bent over a gold and cream striped couch was a young boy. His shorts were around his ankles, and a large red-faced man was raising a belt to hit him again._

_Erik was frozen. The young boy had stopped crying out after the first slap, but after half a dozen began to make small, hurt sounds. A woman was cowering in the corner of the room, a bruise blooming on her left cheek. After a dozen slaps of the belt, the man re-laced it through his belt-loops, turned his back on the whimpering child and silent woman, and went to fix himself a brandy._

_The woman continued to stare as the little boy dropped to his knees with a grunt, then pulled himself up, gingerly slid the shorts back up his body, barely gasping as they rasped over his welted skin. He limped away down a long, gold-leaf hallway._

_Erik followed along, still paralyzed. They were suddenly in a restaurant, the same large man grimacing at the boy, saying:_

_"You're going to pay for that, you little fuck. You know you just fucked up a million-dollar merger with your sass?"_

_"But Papa, the man said he would fire you if he bought the company."_

_"No, he fucking didn't, you little lying shit."_

_Erik saw the young boy look around at all of the tables of smiling families and steak dinners, then watched him crouch down in his seat. Erik crouched with him, and knew that after that night's beating the young Charles would hide under the covers, nursing his wounds and reading a biography of William Wilberforce, the man who rose up to free the slaves out of his own moral conviction. But before he could disappear into the world of words, Charles would get a viscous beating as his mother looked on._

"No; please, stop!" 

Erik jerked awake. That one hadn't been within a dream. He jerked towards the cry, hand going under his pillow for a knife. His body arched in pain as it remembered the cut of the strap and the hunched-over fear the boy had swallowed to walk back to his room. Charles was still in the throws of it, thrashing back and forth on his bed, hands clawing at the white sheets, face contorted in fear and pain.

Erik yanked his feet out of his own entangling covers and carefully sat on the edge of Charles's bed. The phantom pain of the belt was still fresh, but Erik pushed it away, trying with all of his mind's strength to focus on calming, warm thoughts. He had few loving family memories to replace Charles's, but he projected the feelings he got when he saw the sun rise over the Alps; ate a good meal with the trainees; played chess long into the night with his one friend.

Charles still thrashed, no longer calling out, only making those small sounds the boy had made. Erik carefully reached his hand over, and cupped Charles's face. The smaller man stilled, still twisting fitfully but no longer in danger of falling out of bed, his hand reaching up to press Erik's palm to his cheek. Erik concentrated on the most contented memories he could muster: the first time Charles had bought him challah; the first time he had beaten Charles at chess and Charles had laughed and then given him tips to improve his strategy; the long cab-ride where they had used every argument in their playbook, finishing each other's sentences, to convince Darwin to join them. He projected these memories, aiming them down his arm, hoping his friend would pick them from the air and find calm.

Charles slowly settled, keeping his hold on Erik's hand, and drifted into a deeper, calmer sleep. Erik watched his friend sleep, fearful of waking him by taking his hand away, or worse, removing the conduit through which the happy memories were being transmitting and leaving Charles to his bad dreams.

And so Erik spent an entire night thinking of one comforting, pleasant memory after another. He refused to let himself touch on anything hurtful or negative, fearful of throwing Charles back into his childhood hell. He himself began to feel some of the serenity he was trying to give to Charles, finding his happy memories brighter and stronger than he had imagined.

The sun rose, and when its rays touched Charles's face, he woke up with a start. His eyes flew open, and he caught a look of such tenderness on Erik's face, he felt dizzy. He sat up, and found himself still clutching Erik's hand.

"Ah; um. Well. I'm quite sorry about my, uh, display. Is there any way we can pretend to forget it?"

Erik was stunned. He had been thinking such kind thoughts all night, he had created an entirely new relationship between Charles and himself which Charles did not yet know existed. It stung.

"Oh, yes, if that is what you want, yes."

Erik stood quickly, eyes fixedly downcast, and moved to sit on his own bed. Charles's brain, desperately trying to catch up to current events through a haze of vodka, lunged at Erik's hand with both of his.

"I spoke wrong. Please, come back."

Erik stood awkwardly, allowing his hand to be held but not to be drawn back to Charles's bed.

"There is an explanation I would like to give to you, that I owe you. Please, sit with me. I'm still a little woozy."

This last part was a clear lie; Charles looked fine. Erik allowed it to convince him because his entire body felt inexplicably cold after so long a night next to Charles's. Sitting on Charles's bed, with his hand still in Charles's, he looked at him.

"I fell asleep first." Charles said simply. "When I sleep, I can draw others into my dreams unless they are already in deep enough sleep that their own dreams hold them captive. I fear you saw something, ah, something I wish few people to know about."

"I saw your father. Was that how you grew up?"

"The gold-leaf moldings and the Persian carpets? Yes. All very fancy and shiny my house was. My mother loved an attractive surface."

"No, that's not what I meant. You grew up with that man?"

"Oh, uh, yes, quite. Until I was 12, when he died in a Polo accident. Quite tragic for the whole family."

Erik turned to face Charles squarely, gripping his friend's hand painfully tight.

"It was not right, what he did."

"Well, I was precocious, and my power did cause him trouble."

"No. You were a child. He was to protect you. He failed, as did your mother."

"Perhaps."

"No; not perhaps. She did. I suffer my nightmares because I cannot convince myself I had no control. Today, I am strong enough to prevent what happened to my mother; to kill all of those who hurt us. What your father did was not about your power or your mind; it was about his need for violence."

"But Erik, the nightmares I have glimpsed,"--Erik blanched and shot him a look--"only glimpsed, I would not pry my friend. The man who you have hunted for these decades, he had the same need. He would have hurt you or others out of his own evil. We hunt him together now," Charles played a suicide gambit and cupped Erik's face with his palms: "You will never be alone again."

Erik took a deep breath, holding stock still, trying to process the promise and challenge in Charles's voice, and the incredible sensation of Charles Xavier's palms on his skin. He lifted his own hand up, and held Charles's palm to his face, leaning in. Charles breath a sigh of relief, and dropped one of his hands to Erik's shoulder.

He looked square into his face.

"And I must thank you for saving me; I have not had a night of such peace in a long time. You must be very tired."

Erik shrugged, still trying to sort through his rushing feelings.

"If you do not object, I have a proposal."

Erik tensed at this new formal tone. He had stretched so far outside of his experience, he was afraid he might snap.

"Sleep. I have slept enough for the night, and can ease your nightmares. This is one of my gifts I have little chance to use. With your permission, for the rest of the night, you will only dream of the places you showed me."

Erik shifted uncomfortably, unsure of how to ask the next question.

"It seemed, when I was seeking to ease your suffering, that physical contact was necessary."

"Not for me." Charles said. Then seeing Erik's crestfallen face, quickly backtracked: "Except, today, in my hung-over state, physical contact would greatly improve my ability to help."

"Here, like this." Charles scooted to the far edge of his bed, laying on his side with the covers pulled back.

Erik looked dubious. "You want me to be the little spoon?"

Charles's face cracked into a smile.

"I have no strong feelings either way. We can fork if that would help."

Erik looked panic-stricken.

"Joking! Don't worry about it. We only have a few hours, so we wouldn't have time in any case."

Erik banished comments about Charles's presumptions about both Erik's interest in forking and his lasting-power from his mind, took a deep breath, and settled onto the curve of Charles's arm, Charles's other arm around his waist, fingers intertwined.

Exciting as all of these new feelings and experiences was, Erik's nightmare vigil had exhausted him, and he felt the ties of sleep tugging him down. Just before he went completely under, he heard Charles say:

_I've got you, my friend. You are safe with me._

Neither man had nightmares that night.


End file.
